Always and Only You

Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Present Day

I’m still stunned as the car comes to the end of a long, winding driveway. The trees hugging the lane become more sparse and then, finally, it’s as if they step back out of the way to reveal a sloping green lawn on one side of the drive and an elegant Georgian mansion on the other. Gil didn’t confirm or deny my suspicion, but now the secret is out.

I’m clasping his hand tightly, more to anchor myself to something – anything – than because I need to hold on to him. ‘How did you manage to book this place?’ I whisper.

This is Whitehaven, not just my dream wedding location, but my dream location for just about anything. I didn’t even know what it was called or who owned it when I first fell in love with it. I came to South Devon for a holiday once when Mum and Dad were still married, and one day we got the ferry from Dartmouth up the river to Totnes. During the boat ride, I spotted a lonely white house perched on the top of a steep and wooded hillside, its bottom floors obscured by woodland. The house became visible for a few moments, and then it disappeared again behind the trees, as if it had been conjured up from a fairy tale and then swallowed back into the mists.

When I first visited Simon’s parents and found out he lived in Lower Hadwell, it felt like fate, and if we went out on his friends’ motorboats, I always positioned myself on the starboard bow to glimpse this mysterious mansion.

It was Simon’s mum who told me its name and that it had once been owned by a famous actress, Laura Hastings, and that after she’d died, it had fallen into disrepair. The new owner was even more reclusive than the last. After her very public and very messy divorce from a more recent Hollywood A-lister, she’d bought the place and begun restoring it to its former glory.

In the last couple of years, the grounds had been open to the public for one weekend each summer, mostly to raise funds for the charitable foundation the new owner ran and I stood at the gates the very first day, ticket in hand. Just to see the fairy tale up close, to walk in the gardens I had no idea even existed, a closely guarded secret of the surrounding woodland.

I called, of course, when I’d been looking for a venue for my wedding – my real wedding, to Simon – hoping that the fact the public were occasionally allowed inside the thick stone walls and tall iron gates might mean they’d be open to holding the reception there, but I received a firm but polite ‘no’.

I turn to Gil and wait for his answer.

‘A couple of years ago, I did some work for the owners,’ he tells me.

‘I didn’t know that!’

Duh. Well, of course I wouldn’t. This is a dream, Erin. You have to keep reminding yourself of that. In real life, he’s probably never even met them.

But Gil doesn’t know he’s a figment of my imagination so he answers my question anyway. ‘I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t … It’s not the usual sort of work I do, but Louise Thornton contacted me – I don’t know how she found me or who recommended me – and asked if I’d do some cybersecurity work for her. I’d heard you talk about this place so often that it intrigued me and I took the job. The only problem? I was sworn to secrecy. It was that week you wanted to visit that vintage fashion exhibition at the V&A and I couldn’t go with you. Do you remember?’

I nod even though I don’t.

‘She was grateful, said she’d love to return the favour if ever she could, so the day after you said yes to me I called her and, long story short, here we are.’

I smile. I’m impressed with myself. The level of ingenuity and detail in this dream is beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. Maybe I have an absurdly high IQ and never truly realized it before. For a moment, it makes me feel like a superhero, but then I realize I must have been slacking in my waking life if I haven’t tapped into it by now.

I turn to look at the frontage of the mansion, filled with tall, elegant windows. Its stonework had been crumbling the last time I visited, weeds pushing up through the curved steps that led to a drawing room as if the woodland was stubbornly reclaiming the land as its own, but now there’s a fresh coat of milk-white paint over the whole house, and cracks and crumbling corners have been seamlessly restored. I can’t believe I’m here, even in this wildest of wild dreams.

Warm fingers lace between mine and Gil tugs me away from the drive and down a wide path that curves round the building and then out of sight. I let him pull me, eyes still trained on the house, until we duck through an arched gateway and emerge into a large walled garden. I remember this. When I visited, it was just unkempt grass with gnarled fruit trees clinging to the walls. Today, a sprawling marquee covers most of a clipped, green lawn. My mouth drops open when Gil leads me to a smaller awning that acts as a covered porch to the main tent.

This is … This is …

Perfect.

The photographer’s second-in-command is already here, beckoning us to a corner of the garden so he can snap a few shots of us. Before I comply, I take a peek inside.

Is it possible to feel like you’re dreaming when you’re already dreaming? Because I do. I recognize my style and taste in the table settings, in each piece of silverware and crockery, in the floral arrangements that hang above the tables, trailing tendrils of ivy and fern that reach down towards the pure white linen and crystal. I see my handwriting on the name cards, and I’ve clearly been practising my calligraphy harder in this version of my life. When I look up, I discover the ceiling of the marquee is a mass of fairy lights, and I instantly know how magical it will look when the sun sets.

My heart cracks a little, because while all of this is perfect, it’s a little too perfect. I’m sad – no, devastated – that this isn’t what my real wedding will be like, and I berate my subconscious for throwing this up the night before it happens for real. It’s really quite cruel. I don’t want to think of my actual wedding as second best.

That thought is enough to shock me out of my blissful, fairy light bedazzled haze.

You just said it to yourself. It’s not real . You can’t get caught up in this.

And so I turn and follow the photographer to where he wants to put me, and I do as I am told, my body assuming positions almost on autopilot, my cheek muscles cramping from the rigid smiling. But all the while my mind is whirring, trying to work out how I can slash a hole in the fabric of reality and return to normal sleep, to normal life.

Guests start trailing in through the gate. Some head for the marquee, filled with powerful heaters and waiting staff holding trays of champagne and soft drinks, and some drift towards us, smiling and pulling their phones out to grab a few quick shots. I search for Simon’s head amid the throng. I need to find him. I need to get to him.

The photographer lines up my bridesmaids to my left and Gil’s ushers to his right. I could possibly lean behind Gil and touch Simon, but I suspect he’s just out of reach, so I stare at him as often as I can, trying to send a telepathic message to turn round and catch my eye, but it’s almost as if he’s steadfastly refusing to look at me. When, finally, all the shots are done, he sets off with the rest of his and Gil’s buddies towards the marquee without even a backward glance.

No, I want to yell. It’s not supposed to be like this! It’s supposed to be you and me.

I gather up my skirts and run after him as well as I can in a huge white dress, but just as I’m about to catch up with him, a hand circles my wrist and I’m stopped in my tracks.

It’s him. Gil.

Once again snarling up my life and getting in the way of my happiness.

‘Hey,’ he says, and without asking me what I want to do, he pulls me into the tented porch of the marquee and then through a curtain into a small area that has been sectioned off to be used as a cloakroom.

I pull my wrist from his grip, tugging far too hard, because he was only loosely holding it, and I ending up smacking myself in the face with my hand. Ouch.

Even in this strange dream, it hurts like crazy. I prod my nose, which I am now sure is turning pink and swelling to twice its normal size. And then, because I’m frustrated and angry and fed up with being here in this strange, taunting paradise, my eyes begin to sting and I let out a loud sniff.

‘Hey,’ Gil says again, and it’s even softer this time. His arms come around my shoulders. ‘What’s up?’

I shake my head. I could let it all out. I could yell out all my frustration, even though it would make no sense to him, but I don’t. Too many years of battening down the hatches and keeping it all inside.

His lips press softly to the top of my head. It’s such a tender gesture that the tears balancing on my bottom lashes fall. ‘We … we ought to be getting in there,’ I half whisper, half croak. ‘It’s time to make our entrance.’

A low chuckle rumbles next to my ear. ‘No.’

‘But everyone’s waiting!’

He pulls back to look at me. ‘Let them. What are they doing to do? Start without us?’

This is more like the Gil I know, doing whatever the heck he wants with no thought to anyone else. ‘But—’

‘No, Erin … I know you’ve been looking forward to this day for months, if not years, but you’ve been driving yourself into the ground trying to get ready for it despite my attempts to come alongside you, and we’ve been on the go all day. You need this. Let’s just take this moment to pause, recharge … And then, I promise, we’ll jump back on the merry-go-round.’

Much to my surprise, I realize he’s speaking the truth. He described me perfectly, but sometimes I’m so busy diving in and saving the day that I forget I do find large groups tiring and overwhelming. Maybe this is a distress flare from my subconscious telling me to slow down a bit.

‘Okay,’ I say slowly.

Gil smiles as I look up at him, and then he leans towards me.

I place a hand on his chest and turn my head to look at a bright red coat on a rack beside me, laughing awkwardly. ‘Oh, now I see. You almost had me with all that sensitive BS … I think you have other reasons for wanting to get me on my own.’

He says nothing, and when I flick a glance back up at him, there’s humour in his eyes. ‘I’m always looking for an excuse to do that.’

The hairs stand up on the back of my neck as I see his eyes drop to my lips. I know I should move, turn my head again as his torso presses hard against the palm I still have flattened on his chest, as his face gets closer. I suck in a breath …

‘Oh, there you two are!’ Both our heads snap round and I see Anjali holding back the flap of material that makes up the door of this makeshift cloakroom. ‘What are you doing in—’ She stops herself and shakes her head. ‘Forget it. I don’t want to know!’

I back away from Gil, realising what might have happened if she hadn’t come bursting in. I’d told myself I needed to disengage from this stupid dream, emotionally if not consciously, and here I was getting sucked in to it again. And in the worst possible way! With the actual love of my life probably on the other side of a flimsy canvas curtain. I feel sick.

‘Anyway …’ Anjali says, holding back the entrance flap. ‘I’m here to ruin your fun, because everybody is ready to welcome the new Mr and Mrs Sampson into their wedding reception.’

I smile weakly, smooth the skirt of my gown, and let her lead the way.